somewhere in between the outer reaches
of meaningless ***, and the inner tomb
you land in after the last spinning room
of several tequila shots too many

you will discover, your vast finitude
is not everything it’s cracked up to be
and the siren songs of your hidden sea
signal the wreckage of solicitude

but everything that sinks reaches a place
where up is clearly distinguished from down;
though light receded, and breath forgotten,

something ever unaltered, if but trace,
opens the way to return to the sound
of graceful footsteps, on paths untrodden.